Old Ben
by fyrelightpyre
Summary: He came to her whenever he needed company and offered her glimpses of his life. It wasn't until it was too late that she appreciated the small gestures.       This one is for Padfoot Patronus, who inspired me to give this one another shot.


She didn't want to be this person. Women flocked to the stations, some herding their small children, counting down the moments until they saw his face. She leaned against a wall and watched a little girl with braided plaits splash in the puddle. Her mother painted an image in her head of this wonderful officer, a man fighting for his country, and the little soaked girl lapped up these stories like an excited dog. She looked no older than three or four; she probably never laid eyes on this stranger until he walked up minutes ago.

The crowd jostled along, for each of them felt a rush of excitement. That day, that hope, years in the making, finally arrived. The women wore the same styles, threadbare winter coats and matching hats. The blonde girl's mother, a thin woman, reached out and snatched the little girl by the arm. She didn't bother to scold her because her husband eclipsed all her worries. The little girl laughed when her father picked her up and tossed her in the air. Her felt hat fell.

The woman sighed and looked away. Minerva had been to King's Cross Station on endless occasions and never thought twice about it. She'd been here for three hours, maybe more, and found the waiting part more painful than not knowing. Would he be the same? Well, no. She, too, had changed since school. Would she recognise this fool as he walked towards her? She dared not move because she feared she'd strike up conversation with the wrong man. What a mess that would be to explain away.

Earlier that morning, near dawn, an owl sent a message that she wait here. She didn't want any part of this. Since he left, though, headed off to wherever, she found herself starving for news. The tattered note in her hand meant something, if the fool hadn't sent a word for nearly two years. The day he left school, minutes after he stepped off the train, he met with a recruiting officer. He disappeared.

Life went on. He was nearly twenty-three now. She wasn't a part of this war. No, she wanted nothing to do with it and pushed any thought of it from her mind till his letter arrived. It was his hand; she was sure of it. These last months had proved a weighty, invisible hell for her, and she found it difficult, nearly impossible to concentrate on anything since they released the announcement. She wore no hat. Really, she felt like an imposter dressed in this ensemble, for it hung in her wardrobe for the longest time. He had purchased it before he got on the train, a parting gift, he'd said, so he could spot her went he came back.

"You look familiar," a stranger whispered in her ear.

Minerva jumped, yanking herself out of her memories, and looked up at a thin man. He looked older and thinner, but the soft brown eyes gave him away. He clutched a duffel bag in one hand and gripped a walking stick in the other. Bandages and a splint wrapped round his left leg, but he looked in good health nonetheless. He hadn't shaved and paid no attention to the light rain. He wore a military costume, nothing special, and gave her a painful grimace.

"You don't," she admitted, holding her umbrella over him. They weaved through the crowd. When he stepped towards her, she backed away, wary of the other couples embracing and kissing each other in their happiness. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear and broke the ice. "How are you, Benjamin?"

"Cold." He nodded at a young paper shouting in the streets. "You forget that."

Perhaps he didn't think of that sort of thing. She didn't want to ask.

"I'm all right," he said after a minute. He didn't look like he wanted to talk about it, but he noticed she kept glancing at his foot. "It's shrapnel. Let's see. It's a metal they use to ..."

She shook her head. The wizarding community might not hear all the stories behind the madness, but they caught bits of it here and there. He looked relieved that she didn't want to know. He paced up the pace, which frightened her, because he operated on three legs. Walking through the city pushed them through the awkward silences. Eventually, he got hungry and decided they head home. Minerva, who didn't have the faintest idea of what this offer meant to him, started crossing the street.

"What?" He rolled his eyes. Benjamin stopped, catching his breath and pointing with his stick. He sounded exhausted. They had walked for about twenty minutes. He hadn't fallen, though he had his share of near misses. He held the crutch too far from his body as he rummaged in his pocket for a key. He counted off the flats, mumbling under his breath, "... four, five, six."

It was a block of forgotten white flats along a narrow street. It would have been nothing if it wasn't for the large red door. Benjamin thanked an old woman who opened the gate for them. She nodded and continued on her way. Taking a deep breath, Benjamin leaned on the walking stick and gripped the rickety black railing. The water only made things worse. Minerva went ahead of him and watched as he crept slowly up the stairs, holding the crutch a few paces ahead to catch his balance. It seemed like hours, but they made it, and he shoved the crutch stopper against the door, holding it open.

"Ladies first," he said, embarrassed by the weak gesture. When he finally got in, Benjamin collapsed on the nearest couch. "Well, that didn't work out as well as I imagined it. It's not much, but it's home."

A handsome fireplace stood along the wall. Two tattered couches faced each other and there was a coffee table between them. An old armoire and a writing desk were crammed in the small place. Minerva closed the door and hung her coat in the wardrobe. She felt cold, although September had just arrived, and took out her wand. With a simple spell, flames ignited a small fire. She wrapped her arms round her chest.

"You can sit down," said Benjamin, smiling at her. He leaned the stick against the table. Feeling at home, he pulled a pipe, a scratched lighter, and a small pouch out of his duffel bag. He leaned back, lit the pipe and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes. "You want some tea or something?"

"No, thank you," she said automatically. Surprise leaked through her tone. "You're smoking!"

"Oh, this?" he asked, flicking the lighter. "Yeah, I picked up a few things, I suppose. I'll put it out if it bothers you. Are you all right?"

"No." She shook her head, reading his expression. "No, no, that's not ... you can do whatever you want. I'm fine. It's just things have changed, and that's not a bad thing. You're just so ..."

She couldn't put her finger on it. She was a fifth-year, a Prefect, when he left school. The Benjamin she remembered devoured books and stayed away from any negative influences because he got it drilled into his skull as a kid never to stray out of the lines. Somehow, they bonded over that year. He told her before he left that he valued her as a friend and wished her well with her studies. Write to him. Benjamin had told her to write to him because he wanted to keep in touch. He laughed it off, almost as an afterthought. Minerva knew they weren't close friends, but she welcomed the company. He wrote a few times, describing the scenery. Eventually, as the days passed, and they grew further apart, the letters stopped.

Why had she jumped at his word when the owl arrived? She didn't feel the least bit remorseful, though. The pity she felt earlier dried up.

"You didn't answer me," she said quietly. He looked up at her, the pipe dangling in his teeth. No tears flooded her eyes. "I wrote you once a week for months and months until I decided there was no point anymore. When I got the Christmas parcel back, I thought you'd gotten hurt, or taken or ..."

"Minerva," said Benjamin.

She took the folded letter out of her pocket. "And then this comes, and it's you. What is this?"

He shrugged. His patience annoyed her. His mumbled response didn't soften things, either.

"What?" she demanded. She ought to walk right out the door. She sighed, thought that over, and sat down beside him. "I didn't catch that."

"I didn't want to be alone." Benjamin spoke to the wall. When she didn't object, he pressed on with a little confidence. "How stupid would I be as the only officer with nobody to welcome me home?"

She blushed, flattered, and her anger melted away. "Oh. You're an officer?"

"Yeah, no, I'm enlisted," he corrected himself, reeling off an automatic response. "It's complicated. If my luck holds, and it may because the war's over, I'm finished. My God, you've no idea. The bodies, and they warned us about those because they were there last time, you know, because they were unbelievable. Nothing, nothing compared to the gas, though, it's like ... you can't describe it."

She nodded. "Are you hungry?"

"No, not really," he said, digging through the rucksack and taking out a long rectangular box. He opened it and fingered his wand. It was as if he was getting the feeling back. Smiling, he gave it a swish and a small door opened. A wine bottle zoomed out of the cupboard and the door sealed itself. Benjamin crafted two goblets out of thin air. "You're going to make me drink alone?"

She shook her head. He filled the glasses. She relaxed and nodded at the strange thing on the writing desk. "What's that?"

"A typewriter," he said, following her gaze. "My uncle passed last year and left almost everything to me. This is his place. He swore he'd roll over in the grave if those mangy relatives got their hands on his things, so I'm surprised that survived. He used to write for the _Times_. Let me show you."

He waved down her objections and moved round the place. He removed the glass case and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. Everything seemed intact. When he pressed a key, writing appeared on a blank document. When he got to the end of a line, the thing dinged, and he laughed softly at Minerva's reaction before he shifted the document and continued hitting the keys.

"It's a bit rusty," he said, scratching his chin, "but this'll prove useful with the paper."

"I'm guessing you're the favourite nephew," said Minerva. "Which paper?"

"Oh, yes, I didn't tell you," he said, holding onto the suspense. She made a face, so he laughed. "Last week, I got an owl from the _Prophet_ asking that I drop in as a freelance writer, but enough about me. Tell me about your studies."

She started leafing through the paper for his pieces. Not that she put much stock in the press, yet she did this thing rather unconsciously. The man faded out of her life just as soon as he walked in. Honestly, she expected no less of him. The years passed, and they both settled into their lives. Benjamin served her with a fresh serving of grief when she landed a teaching post. Purely for the reaction, he'd said, and he got exactly what he wanted.

So, when she slipped into a press conference on his invitation one summer, she nearly walked out the door. For one thing, she was no journalist, and these people would pick her out like a sore thumb. They all jammed into this small room with inadequate seating. Secondly, the place felt like a sauna roasting them all in preparation for hell. She snatched the rubber band off a stack of pamphlets before passing them on to the reporter. With a quick movement, twisting her hair round, she tied her braid, getting it off her neck.

"I saw that," he muttered, holding a quill between his teeth and jamming his things in his bag. He slung it over his shoulder and led her out of the crowd. The minute they stepped outside, he started digging through his pockets. "Well, that sounded like a bunch of hot air."

"What does that mean?" She was lost again.

The press conference sounded rather grave. Much of it went over her head, honestly, and she was only there to get a clearer picture. The headmaster dealt with the parents and their worries, and Minerva felt that she could do nothing. These attacks escalated, and her students lost members of their families for what appeared to be no apparent reason. All the stories blended together. Usually, she spent her holidays buried in research and proposals. Well, this felt like gathering research in its own way, and everything led to dead ends. None of them seemed to know anything. Yesterday, the Ministry admitted they had no leads on a man who disappeared. They were working on it, of course, but that might mud these days.

"Weren't you standing there?" Benjamin sighed, sounding annoyed. He fumbled round in his pocket for his pipe and cursed under his breath. "Read between the lines. They might have saved themselves a couple shouting matches in there if that idiot Junior Minister shut his mouth. I wanted to hit him."

Night had fallen. The conference dragged in longer than they anticipated and the full moon hung in the sky.

She said nothing. These ramblings weren't aimed at her, and once he had a smoke, he'd see that. Benjamin didn't seem to realise – or, rather, he didn't want to voice the truth – his mood swung with that drag. A smoke calmed his nerves, yes, and he was completely different person without it. Cologne masked the permanent lingering scent that stuck to him. Thrown within the chaos of this conflict – he downright refused it call it a war - he, too, wanted to bury the truth as much as he struggled with himself to expose it.

"When did we land ourselves in this mess?" he asked, lighting his pipe.

"You're the one who came to me," she said lightly. They were headed down the same street he brought her years ago when he first came home.

"Liar," he said. He nodded at a young man on a motorbike. "Professor Dumbledore roped you in, so don't go laying this on me, miss. And, if I remember correctly, you came chasing after me with an owl. Yeah, you see that? You're eating you're words, eh?"

"Yes," she said, giving him the answer he wanted to hear. Her pulled her by the arm and yanked her out of the narrow street.

"You, there, idiot," he shouted, glaring at the rider who zoomed alongside them on the pavement. Sirius Black stirred the bike and gripped its handles. James Potter sat behind him, holding him tightly round the middle for dear life. "You've got a head on those shoulders. Use it!"

Sirius parked the bike in a free spot between two black cars. "Sorry, Benjy, we were running late."

"Well, that doesn't mean I want to lose my life for it," said Benjamin, holding the door open for them. He jerked his head towards a young drunken couple headed in the opposite direction. He lowered his voice and regained his composure now that his life wasn't flashing before his eyes. "You forget where you are, boy, and you keep taking these chances. One day, you'll slip up and you'll be sorry. Mark my words."

The Order didn't dare meet in the same place twice. With people dropping left, right and centre, they couldn't risk leaving a trail. They couldn't all meet together, either, for a long crowd drew raised eyebrows from onlookers. Dumbledore considered this to be somewhat of an interest meeting before they started laying the groundwork. In Minerva's eyes, this was a free chance for the younger crowd to get their feet wet and decide if they truly wanted to jump into this chaos. It made sense to be seen out in the open because eavesdroppers or wandering eyes saw them as a party gathering for dinner. A couple weeks ago, Benjamin suggested the Leaky Cauldron and pulled his connections for the night.

"Benjy," said James, wiping his glasses on his shirt and replacing them on his nose. They followed Benjamin into the pub and started towards the back room. "Oh, hello, Professor. Benjy, hey, Benjy, you're friendly with the barman here. Fancy you could get us some free drinks?"

"No," Minerva and Benjamin answered him in unison.

"Are you sure about this?" Minerva asked, feeling the watchful eyes of the toothless barman.

"You've never been here?" Benjamin asked, shocked. "You need to get out more often. In here, lads, in here, quickly. Tom'll come round with drink and food when he can spare a hand."

James and Sirius closed the door behind them. They obviously interrupted something. The place fell silent and they all looked towards the door. Albus looked up and folded a ripped piece of parchment. His brother sat at a table with Emmeline Vance and Alice Longbottom, although he seemed more interested in his half-empty glass than their conversation. Edgar Bones sat on the hearth with Lily Evans and Peter Pettigrew, and he must have added his commentary, too, because they dodged his gaze. Alastor Moody stood off to the side leaning on his walking stick. His eye swivelled round in his head as he checked his surroundings.

"Nine thirty means nine thirty, Fenwick," he growled in a low voice. He pointed a bandaged hand at the two whispering friends in the back. "I saw you roll your eyes, boy, so don't think I don't know."

Edgar cleared his throat loudly and started to get to his feet. "Merlin, Benjy, I know you're a grand reporter and all, but this suspense thing's killing us. Breathe, folks."

Lily burst out laughing and Alice snorted over her drink.

"We should be thanking Frank he's got your hand," said James, nodding at Alice and taking up the joke. "Because Alice, we love you and all, but that ... that's got to go."

"It ran late," said Benjamin simply, walking over and helping himself to a pint and a chunk of bread. "Is this it? Looks like it. What'd we miss?"

"I'm finished," said Dumbledore, taking a seat. "So unless either you or Alastor have something to add, I think we'll adjourn for the evening and see our next move."

Minerva thought he was going to review the plan on behalf of those who weren't there the last time. He started the meeting this way for those who needed to be brought up to speed; it reminded her of informal conferences in the staffroom. She felt quite sure they had missed that part, though, or had at least stepped in the middle of it. She rarely attended the meetings because she could easily catch the news from the headmaster. Now that she thought about it, this was the first time she attended one without receiving a breakdown of the minutes from a secondary source.

James and Sirius turned to sneak back into the pub while the others gathered their things. Benjamin packed his pipe for a fresh smoke and surveyed the room. James and Sirius called to Lily and whispered their excitement of joining into a secret society and helping the effort. Benjamin watched James closely and shook his head sadly.

"Is that what you think this is? You think this a game?" Benjamin laughed harshly when the boys stared at him. He nodded at James, and the boy wiped the grin off of his face. "What? Are we lost now? Where are your friends, you spoiled little prick? Sit down and shut up."

"Benjy," said Lily, a little hurt.

"No, miss." Benjamin held a hand to silence her. The boys did as they were told, surprised, but they raised no fuss. "You need to hear this. You think you want in, you do, but you have no fucking idea. Mad-Eye, your teachers, the Longbottoms, they've had their reality check. The only one among your gang who looks like he has a bit of life is that tall, lanky kid."

"Remus?" suggested James. "He's ill."

"Yeah. Get this through your thick skulls," said Benjamin, checking both Moody and Dumbledore before he took the floor. "When I was your age, no, younger, I was knee deep in madness like this and my fellow officers got shrapnel and nuclear shit thrown at them from everywhere. We didn't even understand this 'chemical warfare', but we were in the Air Force and followed orders no matter what. You want me to tell you how cool it was to see my home – this city - burning? London? London ... we barely got out of that hell."

James dropped his tankard and the others averted their eyes. Benjamin seemed to have carried this all round for some time, and he looked ashamed, too, because these boys weren't meant to be his target for the worst of it. Minerva hadn't thought these memories spark such anger. They were two different times, honestly, but Benjamin talked about his experience with nobody. Honestly, Minerva doubted he had the slightest idea of his commitment when he signed with the recruiting officer.

"Look, Potter," he said, lowering his voice and nodding at a few of the others. Mad-Eye muttered something to Dumbledore and nodded his approval. "You just need to be positive you want to do this because there will come a time – I promise you – when you'll want to step out."

"You flew over London during the raids?" Lily asked.

"I did, miss," he said, giving her a small smile. "There's more to Old Benjy than you thought, eh? I acted on a whim, really, because my best mate begged me to come along with him after the draft; I helped carry Christopher's casket when they put him in the ground. You've got to know you want this. I'm not trying to scare you or patronise you, but you have to know because You-Know-Who shows no mercy."

Lily took a deep breath and the others nodded.

"Well, now that's cleared up, I'm challenging the i Prophet/i at the gathering tomorrow evening," said Benjamin, hesitating a little and finishing with a lame request, "and I need a date. Any takers?"

Minerva rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "You're auctioning yourself?"

"No," he lied. He went red when they all started laughing. "Well, I can't show up alone, can I? I'm throwing caution to the winds here, especially with them throwing my name in the hat for a distinguished staff writer. Chances are, I'll end up getting the boot, but, still."

"Put your hand down." James glared at Lily. "Look at him, Lily, he's old. You'll look like you're chasing after him for his money till he kicks the bucket. No offense, Benjy."

"That's the third time I've been shot down today," said Benjamin, asking Edgar to scoot over and make some space with a wave of his hand. "That never used to happen before."

"Oh?" asked Minerva. James jerked his head round so fast she was surprised he didn't get whiplash. "You're choosing to not remember, Benjamin. We report anything to get the story we want, right?"

"Hang on," said James, snapping his fingers. "I've got it. Why don't you take her?"

"Who?" Benjamin asked, looking around the room. It dawned on him a few seconds later. "Oh."

"Yeah," said James, pushing his luck. "I'll shadow them and play chaperone for the old people."

Minerva glared at him and crossed her arms. This was just like him to set something up like this. Well, she'd put her foot down because this wasn't happening. They didn't even know each other. He might as well as taken Lily as his guest because this would look just as awkward. James suggested it all for a laugh, of course. Benjamin, on the other hand, looked as though he actually considered her company. They would all talk about the professor standing at this star writer's side. Well, his title wasn't set in stone yet. Anybody who cared about that rag of a publication saw that he wrote with a beautiful style, and Benjamin stood by his word. But that's not what bothered her.

She wasn't going and that's all there was to it.

It rained all day. She put on a pair of silver earrings and a touch of makeup. At her age, none of this helped, but she went through the motions. If this was her one shot of pulling off an act as the good wife, or the good mistress or the good friend, she better make an impressive show of it. (Minerva saved herself from falling further down the status ladder.) Rumours in the papers said he went through women like water. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. She capped the lipstick when someone knocked on the door.

"Yes, James?" she sighed. He'd milk this tale.

"Oh, it's me." Benjamin opened the door. He wore black robes and polished boots. He smiled, showing her a stunning square-cut ruby pendant. It hung from long silver chain. He gave her a shy smile. "I thought you might want to borrow this. It's an anniversary gift from that uncle of mine. You know, since I'm the favourite nephew and all."

"You remember that?" She shivered at Benjamin's cold touch.

"That little jab of yours?" he asked. He brushed her hair off her neck. "You forget my memory. You ever thought of wearing her hair down?"

She shuddered to stab a guess at its worth. She shook her head, snapped an elastic band off her wrist, and wrapped her hair round. His gestures spoke louder than his words. Or, perhaps, and she hoped she imagined this; she crafted this whole thing out of the strings of some faded attraction. In school, she jumped at any opportunity to offer him a hand. It was foolish, yes, but most teenagers run with these fantasies just to catch a glimpse, a nod, or a smile. Well, that was ages ago, and it meant nothing now.

"An anniversary gift?" she prompted him.

"Yeah, he was married to his wife for fifty-three years," he said, hooking the clasp and dropping his hands. "It's just lying in the jewellery box." He stood in the doorway in deep thought. After a few minutes, there was a sound outside and he came back. "That's the car, so we'd better go."

"Of course."

"Minerva?"

"Yes?"

"You look nice."

He ducked out before she had a chance to say anything. She shook her head and followed him. She took a black umbrella out of the armoire before she stepped outside. She had never been that comfortable with riding in cars, but it was better than standing out in the rain. It looked bigger than the outside. A Ministry driver tipped his hat at her as she closed the door and umbrella and slid beside Benjamin. She looked ahead and saw a motorbike with flashing lights.

"The idiot's lost his mind," muttered Benjamin, half-awed by Sirius's decision to travel that way in the rain. The driver started the engine and cruised down the street. Time really didn't matter because they jumped to the head of the line and caught every light. "Why did you invite him along, Potter? This whole thing's turned into a damn entourage."

"He insisted on it." James shrugged his shoulders.

The ride went smoothly despite her misgivings about travelling this way. They decided to hold the party at the Cuffe manor. Barnabas Cuffe spent his gold well, by the looks of it. His place was nestled in these trees. He held his party under a large dining room. Minerva held her tongue with these matters and decided not to question whether he skimmed through some of the muck published in his rag. He was a heavyset man wore a monocle and spoke with a deep voice. Minerva almost laughed at herself when she saw his guest. Horace Slughorn, dressed in his finest emerald green robes, sat on his right side.

"Well, at least we know one thing," said Benjamin, taking her hand and leading her to the end of the table. "We'll eat well. Where are those fools? They were just behind us."

"I don't know." Minerva felt out of place here.

"Don't worry," he whispered, pulling out her chair. "Deny the whole charade, if it pleases you, today never happened."

"Is this my consolation prize?" she asked, fingering the pendant.

He roared with laughter and ignored the glances from the other guests. He thought about sharing the joke, but decided against it. "I'm starting to understand why you never married."

An ancient chandelier hung from the ceiling. A young woman with curly blonde hair sat beside her. Silver plates and crystal goblets were set at every place. There were no platters or serving dishes in sight, though, only menus with elegant writing placed over the thick napkins. It listed three courses, including an appetizer she'd never heard of. A free meal ticket, indeed, if this was her deal for suffering through the night.

When the man heaved himself to his feet, the goblets filled themselves with red wine. Mr. Cuffe droned on about the paper for some time; he inserted places for fake laughter and applause. She pulled a face, a blank expression, so it would look like she came here in support for their cause. Finally, the man sat back down and read off the first course.

"Salad and Mushroom Florentine," he announced to the group at large. Dishes appeared.

"I told this was worth it, didn't I?" Benjamin picked up the wrong fork and started with his salad. He hadn't said anything of the sort. "Well, this is where all your subscription money goes."

"Benjy." The woman reached over Minerva and offered him her hand. "Lovely to see you. So, tell me, what's your next big story? Oh, so you're with the professor now? That's a story in itself, Old Ben."

Minerva lost her appetite.

"No, Rita, no," Benjamin laughed softly, reading Minerva's cold expression. the smile didn't reach his eyes. "We're just close friends, and I didn't want to waste a ticket, you know."

"Oh, don't worry about." She waved her large hand and played with her food. "My lips are sealed."

It ended up being silent meal till she excused herself. Minerva couldn't help feeling that she found another stranger to bother. The woman sounded like she desperately wanted in the circle. If she played her cards right, she may pull it off, and she weaved through conversations like nobody's business. Minerva wondered if she carried precious merchandise in her handbag because she clasped her fingers round the handles.

"Well, she's ..." She struggled to find the words.

"A real piece of work," suggested Benjamin, draining his goblet. It refilled itself. He cleared his throat and stabbed his baked chicken. "She'll get what she deserves when I get my say."

Minerva squeezed his hand. "You don't have to do this."

"I know that." As the feast dwindled down, he didn't bother touching the chocolate gateau. He raised his glass, took a deep breath and called the sleepy room to order. He stared the editor down and picked up where he left off with the complimentary state of affairs. "Barnabas, all of us learned our talents from you, and we sharpen our skills in hopes that the public, our readers, hear our message."

Minerva looked down and watched the old man's lips collapse into a thin line. Clearly, this wasn't the first time he heard this speech. Benjamin fought against the word of those who lined his vault with gold and silver because he truly wasn't in this line of work for the right reasons. He believed in making nothing from readers and offering them all sides of the story. The paper, in his opinion, didn't stand as a vehicle for the government to spread its word. Readers made their own decisions. There was no need to cover the truth about You-Know-Who when they all lived in fear of him.

Minerva shook any thought of the dark wizard from her mind.

"They are the reason we survive as a publication," he continued, overriding the editor's mutterings. "No, Mr. Cuffe, with all due respect, sir, let me get this off my chest. Mrs. Meadows died. She didn't just pass away, and we didn't say a damn thing about it. Why? Because they might come knocking at our doors. We're playing right into their hands."

"Benjy." The man twisted his napkin in his hands. "You've had enough to drink, I think, so sit down. We'll discuss this later."

"We're offering a disservice to the people of this community!" Benjamin trudged on, raising his voice. "We've discussed this matter so much, Barnabas, we've beat it to death."

"Mr. Fenwick," the man spoke through clenched teeth. "Wait for me outside, please."

"Yeah, fine," Benjamin muttered. "This is déjà vu shit all other again because you – the whole lot of you – won't open your eyes. Get up."

She didn't need telling twice. When they stepped outside, she wrapped her arms round her body. The temperature dropped and snow started falling. Fuming, Benjamin snatched the red scarf from his neck. He paced round for the longest time, taking his frustration out on a few gnomes. He didn't bother picking them, but he kicked them round a bit. He added the swearing a little later, and even though she couldn't follow his rant, she got the gist of it.

"You're freezing. Take it."

She draped his scarf over her shoulders. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's not you," he said, shaking his head. "No, you were wonderful to play along with the whole thing. Thank you. It's I who should be sorry for not asking you sooner."

She didn't know what to say to that. Was he just saying it to be nice? They weren't friends; they were barely acquaintances, and she hadn't had a dreadful experience. They had both made this perfectly clear that this wasn't a date. It was a game, a rouse, and they both played their part. She went along in case things got out of hand. Why Barnabas insisted on a New Year's celebration, she'd never know. Christmas lights lit the walkway blinking in the bushes.

"Not at all," she said, taking a step back when he got closer.

"Benjamin," Mr. Cuffe called to him as he got to the bottom of the steps. "Stop. What makes you think you have the right to speak to me like that? Have you lost your damn mind?"

"No, Mr. Cuffe, I think it's rather like I've come to my senses." He draped an arm over Minerva's shoulder and turned to face him. "I quit."

"B-but you c-can't," Mr. Cuffe sputtered.

"Oh, yes, I can. I'm a freelance writer, remember?"

"I – I ...your timing's impeccable. I told you to keep your mouth shut!" Mr, Cuffe flared up at once. "If the Ministry wanted the public to know this, they'd know. They all know what's going on. Their family and friends are dropping like flies. What's that piece about the little girl who got bit? It's not the right timing. Not yet. Nobody in their right mind wants to read that while sipping their morning coffee."

This pushed Benjamin over the edge. "The truth hurts."

"Folks rely on the _Prophet_." Mr. Cuffe stood his ground. "I won't do it. I won't. You're my best man, Benjy, and you've got to realise they need time."

"There is no time," said Minerva. She took Benjamin's hand and squeezed it. He looked like he was really going to swing at the man. You hold those pathetic excuses as press conferences and they're so empty, I don't even think you hear what you're saying."

"Professor, you have no grounds here." Barnabas sounded as if he addressed a child who had just interrupted a conversation between grown-ups.

"Not a smart move, mate." James Potter walked up the path with a stray dog.

"Hit him, Benjamin."

"Exactly, exactly, I'm glad someone sees my point," said Mr Cuffe, thinking he won over an ally. He stopped and reconsidered her offer. Benjamin actually laughed. "Wh-what did you just say?"

He chose not to take her up on her offer, though, and that was a smart move. Honestly, she would have been surprised if he had taken his anger out on the editor. He chewed back a few choice words and held his ground.

"That's the problem. They, the fools and workers, are afraid to be alone and see nothing but your point," he said, "and I can't lie to them anymore. Good night."

"You!" Mr. Cuffe pointed a finger at Minerva. "You're telling him things and you're ruining his career. Whatever this is – whatever you're doing – I can ruin you. My writers will dreg up things that'll make you ... wait and see. You're nothing!"

"Blackmail, that's low even for you, Barnabas." Benjamin swung back and punched him hard. "Set your little rat to work to weave her lies. I dare you. Your piss rag's really seen better days."

As they walked away, he waved his hand. The editor fell to the floor, rubbing his jaw. James met them at the gate; the large black dog he was standing with ran off. Judging by the smirk on his face, he hadn't missed a thing. He ate favours out of a handkerchief. Minerva opened her mouth to ask him why he managed to sneak food from the kitchen, but she closed it, deciding she really didn't want to know.

"You just ... you just ... that was the coolest thing," said James, matching his step. "Did it hurt?"

"You think?" Benjamin asked sarcastically. "Don't know how I'm going to finish the manuscript with one hand by tomorrow night."

"That was very foolish of you." Minerva followed Sirius round the corner. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it, but I didn't think you'd break his jaw."

James howled with laughter and popped a mushroom in his mouth.

"Break his jaw?" Benjamin showed her his bruised hand. "You're welcome. Hey, you're Dumbledore's secretary, why don't you share your services tonight?"

"I am not a secretary," she said flatly.

Benjamin raised his eyebrows. "No, you just clean up after him after you finish with your classes. You send out documents and run the place when he's not there, but that's not a secretary, no. Please?"

"No. Who sets a deadline at the New Year?"

He gave the obvious answer. "Me? You can go home to your girl now, boy, the old folks not longer require your hand holding service."

"Dumbledore says nobody goes round alone," said James.

"And you're babysitting over your holiday, are you?" Benjamin read his uncommitted expression. "I thought so, Potter, thank you. There are two of us, so we're not alone."

"No, sir, I don't imagine yer ever alone," said a raspy voice. "Not with that witty audience to stroke your ego whilst you spread these lies."

Minerva almost cried out when Benjamin locked the fingers of his good hand round her wrist. A lingering scent of blood and sweat followed this man. He did not walk in a drunken stupor. She had never met him, and she had no intention of getting to know this stranger. As far as she knew, this man had picked up a paper in the street and scanned an article that irked him. Benjamin hardly held his tongue, which got him into trouble, but he usually dodged the criticism.

"You're not a stupid man, Greyback," said Benjamin, greeting this man as if they were old friends discussing politics over tea. He dropped Minerva's hand. "Of course, you know, I'm not the one snatching kids, so I'm not sure my judgment holds here. What do I know? James, get yourselves home, please."

"No," said James as both he and Minerva took out their wands. His eyes got big when he heard footsteps coming down the pavement. Despite the fear that crept into his voice, he kept his wand hand steady and glared at the stranger. "I'm fine here, thanks."

"Benjamin," said Minerva uncertainly, watching two tall figures approaching their leader.

"Shut up and get out!" He held his wand aloft and a silvery shape shot out of its top and soared down the road. "Damn it, boy, if you don't listen to me ..."

"Come on."

James took her by the wrist and dragged her down the street. When they reached one of the broken lampposts, piercing screams filled the air. Minerva looked round wildly for Benjamin and saw a limp form. There were shouts of laughter and jeers. A moment later, it looked as though the body was being dragged and the man screamed as they slipped into the darkness.

"Benjamin!" Minerva shouted the name over and over in her head, and her voice caught in her throat. James redoubled his grip round her sweaty hand, jerked his arm a little and disappeared into the night.


End file.
